"Well, well, Eleanor, it's a wife's place to submit a bit. A high temper in a woman doesn't do varry much harm if she's an old maid; but if she hes a husband it's a different thing. Go home and do thy duty, and—"
"I always do my duty, father."
"Then do more than thy duty. It's a poor wife that stops at duty, and measures her life by that rule. Give love and patience and something higher still, self-forgetfulness. Anthony Aske isn't a bad sort, but he'll pay thee in thy own coin; most men do that. Nay, nay, my dear lass, don't thee cry, now!"
For Eleanor had hid her face in the satin cushion of the sofa on which she sat, and was weeping bitterly, and Jonathan's heart was hot and angry within him, as he moodily paced up and down the splendid room. He longed to comfort his child, to comfort her whether she deserved comfort or not, and he felt as if there would be a solid gratification in some unequivocal abuse of Anthony Aske. For it was hardly likely that Eleanor was altogether in the wrong, and she was so young, so beautiful and inexperienced, that the father thought, naturally, allow-
